Not the punchline: What it takes to be a queer comedian in India

In a country where stand-up comedy is dominated by cis-het upper-caste men, representation for queer comedians goes beyond mere visibility—it is about creating platforms that respect, invest in, and trust marginalised voices

In India, the stand-up comedy scene has always been dominated by cisgender, heteronormative, often upper-caste men. There is a well-worn and sometimes toxic formula: punch down, lean on stereotypes, and preserve a “safe” status quo. Misogyny cloaked as "edgy" humor remains a default, while genuine queer and Dalit voices are sidelined, tokenised or invisibilised altogether.

But a quiet revolution is slowly unfolding across India, in basement venues, through self-funded tours, on WhatsApp groups, and the informal circuits where solidarity and survival, rather than industry glitz, are the currency. It is a revolution that goes beyond making audiences laugh: it’s about reclaiming voice, dignity, and the very definition of what Indian comedy can be.

Comics like Sunthar V. (he/him), a queer Eelam Tamil performer from Toronto; Anshita Koul (she/they), a Kashmiri artist weaving political history and identity across continents; Ankur Tangade (she/her), a queer Dalit woman from Beed in Maharashtra; Krey (he/they), a Dalit Bahujan comic and curator, who has been part of Blue Material gigs, an event property for Dalit artists and others from the margins; and Ritushree Panigrahi (she/her), India’s first openly transgender woman stand-up comedian are all embodying this change. Their work is not only a challenge to the industry’s norms but a nuanced commentary on caste, gender, queerness, diaspora, and belonging. Together, their stories reveal how comedy, at its most subversive, becomes a form of resistance, survival, and radical self-definition.

When satire and comedy are survival mechanisms

Across their different backgrounds, what unites these comedians is a commitment to what they call “punching up.” Anshita’s reflection on her comedy’s political roots is instructive: “When I started building my material, I gravitated towards everything anti-establishment. In Kashmir, satire wasn’t just funny—it was a survival mechanism.”

Anshita’s framing is crucial. Comedy is often dismissed as frivolous entertainment, but for marginalised voices, it becomes a way to expose systemic violence and question historical silences. Sunthar V. adds another layer, one that highlights the complexity of diaspora and identity: “Our existence as queer people is already political, so nothing about this feels 'radical.' But the impact? That’s undeniable.” His comedy draws from the traumatic history of Eelam Tamils, a community displaced and forcibly silenced. The Sri Lankan civil war may have officially ended in 2009, but for many Eelam Tamils in the diaspora—especially those navigating queerness and inherited trauma—its aftershocks are still deeply felt. In the war’s final stages, the state launched a brutal military offensive that killed tens of thousands and displaced even more, while also tightening its grip on the media, on memory, and on Tamil political expression. For generations that followed, especially those born in exile (such as rapper and record producer, M.I.A.), the loss was not only territorial, but cultural. In this context, Sunthar’s comedy becomes more than performance—it’s a way to hold on to language and lineage in a world that tries to erase them. 

In parallel, Ankur Tangade’s journey reveals the challenge of holding multiple identities on stage. “I came out as queer before I came out as Dalit,” she says, “and I used to separate those parts of myself when performing. But the more I tried to split them, the more fragmented I felt. I realised I’m a queer Dalit woman, and I needed to talk about all of it, because that’s my truth.”

Ankur’s statement resonates deeply across narratives: comedy here isn’t just about crafting jokes but about embodying whole identities that society has historically forced to fragment or hide. Their performances reclaim complexity and resist simple categorisation.

This radical visibility comes at a cost, especially for queer and trans performers, and Dalit-Bahujan artists. The intersection of misogyny with caste and gender identity reveals itself in stories marked by deep trauma and reclamation of one’s space.

Public appeal: The backlash of being a queer comedian in India

Anshita shares the exhaustion and danger of publicly embracing one’s queer identity in India’s often hostile social context, especially as a woman. “The caste/class/NRI privilege will always prepare me for backlash, but rape and death threats still affect my mental health. Sometimes, I have to water down my words just to stay safe.”

For Ankur, the intersectionality is further intensified: “As a queer Dalit woman, I experience layers of marginalisation. Sexual harassment and stalking are common, especially after I reject advances. The hate I get is both about caste and queerness.”

These are not isolated experiences. Ritushree’s account of being a transgender stand-up comedian in India reveals systemic exclusion compounded by transmisogyny. “For me, the material didn’t change before and after coming out—it was always political. But succeeding as a transgender woman in comedy is nearly impossible. Most club owners in Mumbai don’t want to feature trans performers, no matter how talented [they may be]. We are pushed into niche shows labelled ‘queer material,’ while cishet men talking about their lives is ‘comedy.’ The problem isn’t the content—it’s the person saying it.”

Ritushree’s words expose the double bind of tokenism. Her story reflects a common experience across the community: the comedy world often masks exclusion behind the veneer of inclusion, inviting queer and Dalit comics only on its own terms. And these terms are inherently limited and framed by cishetero and casteist powers.

Despite these struggles, humour becomes a radical act of emotional survival and self-affirmation for these folx. Ritushree shares her approach, quoting Tyrion Lannister (from The Game of Thrones): “‘Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armour, and it can never be used to hurt you.’ I laugh at my misery on stage, because if I don’t, I’ll break.”

This embrace of vulnerability-as-armour echoes Anshita’s reflections on how humour saved her life amid familial and societal pressures to conform. Ritushree adds: “In comedy, people laugh when they feel the comic is smarter than them. That laugh is a shield. But as a trans woman, I often have to work twice as hard to earn it.”

The courage to be yourself on stage

Similarly, Krey points to the emotional and intellectual labour that goes into performing while representing entire marginalised communities. “In the beginning, I just wanted to be relatable. I was trying to say what the audience wanted. But now I’m more interested in saying what I need to say, even if some people don’t laugh or understand.”

The courage to hold that space—performing as oneself in one’s complexity—is an act of defiance against erasure and a rejection of audience comfort as a prerequisite for visibility. The fight for representation extends beyond individual stages. Many of these comics have taken the initiative to create and curate spaces where marginalised voices can thrive on their own terms.

For instance, Sunthar’s launch of a Tamil open mic in London is emblematic of this. “We needed a space to tell our stories, in our languages, with our humour. I coached others on storytelling and language play, making space for voices often overlooked,” he shares.

The Blue Material comedy series too—which has taken stage in Mumbai and New Delhi—creates a dedicated platform for Dalit and Bahujan performers, challenging the mainstream comedy circuit’s attempts at invisibilising them. “There are few spaces by us and for us. When I curated these lineups, I realised no one else would do it. That’s why community curation is essential,” says Krey. 

Anshita’s experience organising a queer comedy tour with Queer Rated Comedy, an all-queer comedy platform, across India further highlights the systemic barriers: “Selling tickets, dealing with VIP culture, and venue reluctance was difficult. But the tour sold out in three out of the five cities, because people want to see themselves on stage.”  These efforts reflect a key insight: Representation isn’t just about visibility, but about autonomy. It’s about creating platforms that respect, invest in, and trust marginalised voices, rather than reducing them to tokens or caricatures. The diasporic experience adds another dimension to the comedy these artists create.

The role of language in comedy

Anshita recalls struggling with the colonised mindset when performing in English in Europe. “I kept asking myself, ‘Will they get my jokes? Are my references too local?’ But when I stopped trying to guess what the audience wanted and started speaking my truth, I found my voice.”

Sunthar, performing in ‘Tanglish’ and Tamil, uses language as a coded tool for identity and resistance. “Tamil songs often have double meanings. That layered storytelling shaped my comedy. It mirrors queer experience: always performing, always translating.”

This interplay of language, culture, and identity underscores the complexity of decolonising humour. It’s not just what is said, but how, in which language, and for whom—a dynamic that these comics navigate daily. They challenge norms not only by what they say but by how they say it and whom they say it to. Anshita refuses gendered honorifics and pronouns for strangers on stage. “I don’t assume a man and a woman sitting next to each other in my show are in love with each other; I assume they are in love with me. It unsettles audiences but opens space for reimagining desire and identity.”

Sunthar, meanwhile, insists on speaking without censorship or shame, “because comedy has to come from truth.” For Krey, diluting their experience for comfort or laughs is a no-no. “I no longer perform for comfort. I don’t want guilt over who I am or regret what I didn’t say.”

These approaches unsettle audiences who expect comedy to reinforce social norms. Instead, these performers demand recognition of multifaceted identities and lived realities. It’s not merely about inclusion but about fundamentally reshaping whose stories get told, who controls the mic, and how humor can serve as a vehicle for radical empathy, solidarity, and healing.

“Humour lets us zoom out. I’m not lonely because I’m queer—I’m lonely because my friends haven’t come out yet,” says Anshita. That tension—between loneliness and connection, invisibility and visibility—is the lifeblood of their comedy. It’s a reminder that these comics are not the punchline but the writers of a new, more inclusive cultural landscape.

The humour of Dalit and queer comedians carries the weight of history, of trauma and marginalisation, yet also the lightness of survival and possibility. Through their voices, comedy becomes a shared space where laughter and politics are inseparable, and where the radical act is not just to be funny, but to unapologetically be oneself.

Curated by Gaysi Family

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